Any views expressed within media held on this service are those of the contributors, should not be taken as approved or endorsed by the University, and do not necessarily reflect the views of the University in respect of any particular issue.
Press "Enter" to skip to content


Hey everyone, we’re back for more heavy ’n’ hairless, pliably fibrous, pitilessly premium, omni-channel, phlemstyle, max-merch, executable jus-ju. CAD$3,500 of gift cards are unredeemed by the wicked every second, so let’s maximise gift card breakage!

I always shiver as I cross its inscrutable threshold. The cramped community dressing room of our insane CAD${STORE_NAME} branch is curated to create a tense atmosphere and intense sense of foreboding. It’s just gone 4:15am and ‘The Terms’ – this season’s resident in-dressing room band here at our daunting flagship – are already deep-croaking their second album.

The much anticipated release UTC+5:30 is due out as part of our signature Fall rotation later this solemn afternoon – grotesquely solidifying our chaotic concierge-meets-coven commitment to oozy applique mutilation.

Before I was born, The Terms became infamous for introducing necro-run routes as part of their writhing retail gatekeeping experience, eliminating the old shop-floor mutual animosity between leather and hell in favour of a blistering maze of catastrophic cometary debris. Of course, The Terms’ talents for tailoring primal fear and geologic violence as guarantors of athleisurelust, among other things, are affected by other factors, including the band’s liturgical powers.

“Our Flagship is really the soul of humanity. Ceci n’est pas une retail store… it’s a threshold between utmost gravity and abysmal nothingness.”

Adversely impacted by executable jus-ju as the dressing room mist grows murkier, their fourth track, Product Stories, kicks off unfolding and refolding a 100% gangrenous toque so that it thickens upright atop a decrepit mannequin feature. In an effort to fully experience the toque’s seasonal fluctuations, the mannequin is buried standing.

As the rhythm section reaches fever pitch amidst CAD${STORE_NAME}’s foul quavering tech-sweats and luminescent salt and vinegar pompomery, the toque is gently wiped down with peanut butter, then pummelled with an electric hammer until it bursts into flame. The monolithic moaning of a roving mutilated yarn as it grasps a final atonal stitch is a nagging addition to the increasingly complex layout of our raw slay floor.

Before the foaming and crashing – silence. Our tiny brand ambassador is killed instantly by the deluge; the groans of perishing customers fill the monumental flagship. Within a week… the unknown disease.

The Confraternity of Neoflagellants La Confrérie de Neoflagellants [(c)krs] #été MMXXI Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license MMXX

Report this page

To report inappropriate content on this page, please use the form below. Upon receiving your report, we will be in touch as per the Take Down Policy of the service.

Please note that personal data collected through this form is used and stored for the purposes of processing this report and communication with you.

If you are unable to report a concern about content via this form please contact the Service Owner.

Please enter an email address you wish to be contacted on. Please describe the unacceptable content in sufficient detail to allow us to locate it, and why you consider it to be unacceptable.
By submitting this report, you accept that it is accurate and that fraudulent or nuisance complaints may result in action by the University.